


Not a Maid, But a Queen

by Skyuni123



Series: The Honeypot Chronicles [2]
Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Bisexuality, Consent Issues, F/M, Feminist Themes, Gen, Honeypot, Honeypot Missions, Polyamory, Team Bonding, Team as Family, what happens when you have to sleep with someone for a mission and you don't want to?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-05 17:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12194151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyuni123/pseuds/Skyuni123
Summary: Being one of the only women on the team means that sometimes you get the short end of the stick.Ilsa Faust, a honeypot mission, and one of the worst men in the entire world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This series isn't just going to be jokes. I wanted to discuss all of the sides of the honeypot thing.

It's Ilsa’s turn to chat up the mark.

 

It’s not that she’s  _ bad  _ at this sort of thing - because she’s not. If there was some sort of agency-mandated competition around honeypot missions, she’d at least be  _ tied  _ with Ethan, perhaps even topping him.

 

And who can say that they’ve ‘topped’ Ethan Hunt?

 

Not many people.

 

It’s just that the mark, in this case, is one Vitaly Bulgakov. He’s an Russian billionaire, a Virgo, and has a penchant for being one of the worst humans on the planet.

 

She’s fine with honeypot missions, even enjoys them at times. There’s less of a risk of death, generally, and she’s fairly fond of that.

 

However, Bulgakov is vile. He’s incredibly racist and homophobic - which rules out the rest of the team for this mission by varying degrees - and splashes his money about causing harm to people all around the world.

 

But the mission comes first, and they need intel that only Bulgakov has. There’s a Russian military satellite that’s gone rogue, and the IMF believes that Bulgakov knows what happened to it.

 

The only problem is that Bulgakov keeps all of his intelligence on one closed-network computer in his mansion - so not even Benji can work his magic to get the intelligence remotely.

 

That’s where she comes in.

  
  


The way her teammates see her off is something akin to a funeral. Usually, they’d be joking about - because these missions are usually  _ fun.  _ Today is a different story.

 

“No-one would be opposed if you killed him.” Jane says, quietly, and wraps her arms around her. 

 

Present company excluded, she’s fairly sure someone would notice if Bulgakov just dropped off the map. Sometimes they have to do things the slower way and hope that it ends favourably. “If only.”

 

Jane pecks her on the cheek and gives her a long-suffering look. They’ve both been here before. It’s one of the perils of the job. Many criminals tend to be old rich men who like women half their age - which often leads things in their direction. “Stay safe.” She sighs, gives her another squeeze, and moves away to continue packing equipment into a case.

Benji’s next, and the expression on his face  _ nearly  _ makes her regret teasing him last time he’d had to do one of these. The Frost mission… the one they’d never found out anything about. “Say the word and I’ll destroy him.”

 

There’s no doubt that he’s got enough information on the man to ruin his reputation forever. “Not until after the mission is completed.” She says, and smiles gently at him. Sometimes she has to take liberties for the agency. She’s used to it, but it doesn’t get any easier.

 

He hugs her and it’s almost crushing. It’s oddly tactile for Benji, he’s not really the type. “He’s such a prick though.” 

 

“Don’t I know it.”

 

Brandt socks her on the shoulder in the way that he does when he’s anxious. They’ve worked together long enough,  _ she knows.  _ “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

 

“I wouldn’t dare.”

 

“You nervous?”

 

“If you keep talking in idioms I will be.” 

 

Brandt laughs once - a cynical rough thing. He doesn’t look happy. “You know that I’d take your place if I could, don’t you?”

 

“And you would loathe it just as much.” She mimics his pat on her shoulder on his, but is less heavy-handed about it. “I’m  _ fine.”  _

 

Ethan’s last, and by this point, everyone else has gone off to other parts of the room to prepare things for the mission. The tension in the air feels so thick that she could part it with a knife.

 

“Are you going to give me my last rites?” She says, hardly parsing the joke as she says it.

 

It’s obvious that it’s a step too far for Ethan, it’s very apparent in the set of his jaw. “Don’t.”

 

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

 

“You and I both know that you don’t want to do this.” They’re the same height and Ilsa doesn’t really think she’s noticed that before. Ethan fills the room with such  _ presence -  _ it’s strange to see him come back to real life sometimes.

 

“Yes, well, sometimes we have to. It’s the job.”

 

“It shouldn’t  _ be  _ the job!” 

 

She notices how tense he’s become - how he could snap with the tiniest motion. Somehow, his worry about the mission manages to assail some of her anxiety. “If you’re going to reassemble IMF from the inside out again, maybe leave it until we’ve got our intelligence?”

 

He snorts. “Maybe. If I don’t hear from you by 2100, I’m coming in after you.”

 

If she was the kind of person who rolled her eyes, she definitely would now. Instead, she settles for a simple sigh. “Ethan, you know you can’t do that. I’m fine. The mission’s going to be successful and then you can deal with Vitaly. It’s  _ fine.” _

 

She wishes she could believe it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. bulgakov

Another party, another life.

 

She’s Anna Winters, a marketing executive with one of the more niche men’s magazines in the UK. Bulgakov spends his money in many places, and fortunately (or unfortunately, as the case may be) he owns a large portion of the media, including the magazine that she ‘works for’. 

 

Bulgakov is having a party at his UK mansion for a selection of the company’s top staff, and she’s got an invitation. Intel says that he holds the information for his satellite company (which is something else he owns, of course) on a closed ethernet within his estate. The IMF believes that through Bulgakov’s information they’ll be able to find the Russian satellite they’re missing. 

 

Now, all she has to do is seduce the creepy bastard.

  
  


Ilsa looks good, she knows that. A long flowing backless green dress and heels works wonders for a person’s self image. The only problem is that the whole getup makes running a little hard. The IMF may know its way around advanced technology, but a relook at the ‘women’s disguises’ area might not go amiss.

 

She spots Bulgakov as soon as she arrives. He’s large, bald, and a poster boy for Cuban cigars, the way he’s puffing on one. Women are fawning over him - Ilsa has no idea why - and he’s very hard to miss.

 

“I’m going dark.” She says, toggling her earpiece on for one final time. She doesn’t need any idle chatter distracting her. 

 

The only thing she hears before she toggles it off again is a quiet,  “good luck,” from Ethan. 

 

They’re all more subdued than she’s ever heard them.

  
  


It’s time. Ilsa works hard to keep the disgust out of her voice as she approaches Bulgakov. “Mr Bulgakov, it’s an honor to finally meet you!” 

 

Anna Winters may be a marketing executive, but she’s an awfully giggly one. Bulgakov likes his girls fawning and exuberant, so Ilsa injects that into her voice as she speaks. 

 

“Winters?  _ Nyet _ , I haven’t heard of you. Have you been working for me long?” He takes her arm and draws her in closer. The women around them continue to preen and fawn.

 

He  _ reeks  _ of cigars and sweat. It’s nauseating beyond belief.

 

Still, Ilsa pushes past the initial discomfort. “Only a few months, sir, but I love it! Your company has really opened me up to new experiences.” 

 

This is the worst role she’s ever played, and she’s counting the time when she spent three weeks as a dancing girl on a Russian oil platform.

 

“Of course, of course. What do you do for fun, my little girl?”

 

If she wasn’t obligated to still be in the room, she’d be running for the hills right now. Vile. The man was vile. “Oh, you know. Exercise, reading…” She lowers her voice, and says, vaguely-huskily, “..talking to strange men.”

 

She knows she’s got him hooked. Mere minutes later, he’s leading her out of the main room and through a series of corridors. The nausea is hanging in her stomach and the  _ smell  _ coming off Bulgakov is going to be stuck in her clothes for days. She  _ really  _ doesn’t want to do this. 

 

Lie back and think of England, eh? 

 

-

 

An hour or so later, Ilsa arrives back at the hotel room she and Ethan are sharing for the sake of the mission, sans a shoe and with a large rip in one side of her dress. Benji is sat at the dining table, hard at work on his laptop. Brandt and Jane are perched on the bed in the corner, and Ethan is pacing. They all look up when she arrives. 

 

She drops a thumb drive on the table in front of Benji. “I got the intelligence. Found the satellite. Do your worst.” 

 

Ignoring the barrage of questions she gets from the others, she crosses to her travelling pack, pulls out some comfortable clothes and heads for the bathroom. Their questions can wait. She needs to get Bulgakov’s greasy, smoky scent off her skin,  _ right now.  _

 

She turns the hot water up as high as it can go and uses half a bottle of travel shampoo scrubbing the stink out of her hair. It could have been worse. It could have been worse. It could have been worse. 

 

Benji can get revenge now.  _ They  _ can stop other criminals now. It’s fine.

 

It doesn’t  _ feel  _ fine.

  
  


When her skin is on the verge of being pruney and she’s washed the shampoo out of her hair, there’s a knock at the door. She’s sitting on the floor of the shower now, skin flushed from the heat of the water, with the shower door wide open.

 

She sighs. She really doesn’t want to talk about it, but this is the IMF. She’ll have to talk about it, sooner or later. “Who is it?”

 

“Me.” Ethan. Of course. “I’ve sent everyone away until tomorrow. Benji’s going to relay the information about the satellite. Can I come in?”

 

“If you want.” He’s seen her in worse. The IMF has made sure of that, over the years.

 

He politely adverts his eyes as he comes in. He’s dressed in sweatpants, a loose tee and he’s shoeless. At least he doesn’t look like he’s going to fight the world like he did when he came in, which is always good.

 

She sighs again. “Look, Ethan, you don’t have to be so uncomfortable about this. I’m not going to break.” ‘Breaking’ isn’t the word for it.

 

His eyes come to settle on her face after a moment. “I know. Believe me, I  _ know. _ You two put up with far more of this kind of thing than you should, and I don’t know how you do it.”

 

She doesn’t have to guess to know who he means with ‘you two’. “Lots of drinking.”

 

“You two drink less than I do.” He settles on the floor opposite her, and to his credit, his gaze doesn’t slip from her face. “It’s admirable, you two, and  _ all  _ the female agents, doing things like this.”

 

The ‘ _ and not making a fuss’ _ is unspoken, but it’s obvious in the air. 

 

“It’s the job.”

 

“It shouldn’t be the job.” Ethan scrubs a hand through his hair, and vigorously messes it up. “I understand the need for honeypots, but they’re unfairly skewed towards female agents.”

 

“Well if you can manufacture a few more ugly tyrannical multimillionaires who are into men, feel free to take my place.” She says dryly. Ethan’s making her feel better, just by being here. She knows he’s got… problems… with how IMF is run and he’s very outspoken about them. She knows he’s trying to distract her from the mission, but it’s working.

 

“There really is a shortage of women and gay men wanting to take over the world.” Ethan muses. “I wonder why that is.”

 

The question is  _ very, very  _ rhetorical. “Like I said, feel free to take my place.” 

 

He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind. I used to get wheeled out for honeypots all the time back in the day, but they were never so-”

 

“Grotesque?”

 

“I was going to say ‘awful’, but yours works. I generally get women. Can’t think why.”

 

“Mmmmm, no idea.” Ilsa’s beginning to get very pruney. She turns off the shower and stands. “Throw me a couple of towels, will you?”

 

He stands up as well and tosses her the towels, before leaving the bathroom. She dries off, dresses in trackpants and a singlet, and winds a towel around her hair to dry.

 

Ethan’s perched on his bed when she comes out. “I don’t want to dredge anything up, but I have to ask, for the sake of my mind - everything’s okay, isn’t it? You’re not going to go back and slice him open or anything, are you?”

 

She can tell that he’s only half joking.

 

She sits on her own bed and turns to face him. “I can’t say it was a good mission, Ethan, but -”

 

“But-?” He asks, quietly.

 

“He was a voyeur. Only a voyeur. Thank  _ God.  _ It wasn’t good, but it could have been so much worse. I did my thing, he did his, he fell asleep and I got the intel. Nothing else happened.” 

 

She still feels slimy, but it feels good to get it out in the open. It could have been so much worse. So  _ so  _ much worse.

 

“That’s a relief. I’m glad.” Ethan exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

 

“So am I.”

 

She’s not glad it happened, but it’s over now. It could be worse.

It could be  _ so, so  _ much worse. 


End file.
